


and the room sings: we know something you don't.

by shisens



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 70s Queen, Angst, British Slang, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Mentions of Sex, Mutual Pining, POV Female Character, Photography, Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swearing, Wow!, also a non queen lyric as a title, also the summary and title makes this seem more.....serious than it is, but nothing explicit will happen because i cant be writing that!, eventually, i have some clue as to where this is going but i also dont!, im trying to follow the timeline of queen as accurately as possible odhska, mostly roger-centric, nothin too heavy.........., this isnt poncy i promise, with some.........artistic license, writing roger is interesting oisjka, you both side step each other! god!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-26 14:40:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shisens/pseuds/shisens
Summary: Throughout the years, you and Roger have always ended up close, but not close enough.(snippets through time, as you both drift together and apart.)





	1. it sounds like leaving home - 1971.

**Author's Note:**

> in which i abuse italics way too much (get used to that), and it's 1971!

_**circa. may, 1971.** _

Watching them, together, you think they’re on the brink of success already, ready and eager to dive headfirst into the fame that’s yet to come, and you sometimes want to leap from wherever you are, and shout at whatever the hell is in the sky _“Get on with it!”_. But, you’re not entirely sure who would respond - probably someone completely random shouting back at you to shut up, but you’ve been rooting for Queen far too enthusiastically to be put down by a single person.

Queen. You remember fighting down an amused smile when Freddie, after a Smile gig, announced it to you, as if it was a statement of fact.

_"Queen?” you echoed back, a lilt of humour in your voice._

_"Yes, Queen! It’s a good name, isn’t it? Immediate.”_

_“It’s very...regal. Do you think your band members to be will like it?” you asked, eyes moving to focus on the three on the stage, packing away their setup for the night, as people disperse to the bar. You heard Freddie scoff an ‘of course they will!’ and you rolled your eyes, a smile having finally broke its way onto your face. “Loving the blind confidence, Freddie.”_

Of course, Freddie was right. They went with it, and now with a new bassist, they were well on their way, using that confidence to push through all the uncertainties people tried to pile onto them. Though the band would call them idiots, you had to admit, they had a point. While they were talented, and had the absolute capability, becoming famous wasn’t easy, and studios were cautious, or far too quick to judge, with all the Beatles wannabes that followed after.

What got them past the doubts and disbelief was the confidence and arrogance that became necessary for them to succeed, in the beginning, which _was_ annoying to deal with, at times, especially as their (working mostly for free, poor lads, they were basically skint), photographer, who witnessed...a lot, which wouldn’t be very image-friendly. Photos of a band where one of them is gesturing to a drumstick and another’s ass doesn’t do well for publicity (...for the start of their career, anyway).

You’d become their (amazing, incredible, generous) photographer through the frontman himself. You met Freddie at Ealing Art College, you being in the photography department, and having friends in the graphic design department - you took interest in what you could only describe as ‘a shy peacock’ when you saw him in the same social gatherings as you, and you being the curious one, wanted to talk to him. Quickly realising you both had passions in fashion, as well as your degrees, you talked more frequently. And the peacock that is Freddie Mercury - or who was still Freddie Bulsara, legally - opened up to you.

Now, here you were, watching their rehearsal, that’s been going on for _hours_ , for their first gig with the new bassist (you suppose having a demo tape nobody was interested in only pushed them further with their efforts), camera ready, hanging against the wall to get wider shots, while Mary couldn’t stop watching Freddie from the beat up sofa Brian had managed to lug over (which wheezed sadly every time anyone sat on it). You were trying to get the new bassist, John, who was very quiet, more noticeable in the shots, trying to bring attention, but against everyone else, he didn’t bring much attention to himself for you to photograph in the first place. Frustrated, you let out a sigh, lowering your camera - and at the same time, they stopped playing. You looked up, only to be greeted with the sight of Roger, sat at his drums, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

“You’re playing too slow!” He barks at Brian, reminding you of an angry chihuahua.

“What do you mean too slow? I’m playing exactly as I always have!”  
  
“You’re bloody well not! You keep getting slower and slower!”  
  
Brian lets out a surprised, irritated laugh, and follows with a high pitched _‘oooh, slower and slower, boo hoo hoo’_ , to which Roger, in a very typical Roger fashion, responds with a launch of a drumstick at Brian.

Which is normal. Except, it didn’t hit Brian, as he dodged, and it ended up smacking you in the face instead. _Ouch_. “Shit!” the two squabblers yell.

Mary calls out your name, before Freddie cuts in “Children, the both of you! Ridiculous. Are you alright, darling?” 

“Besides a bit of stinging -” you wince as Mary lightly touches your face, and she pulls her hand back “-I’m fine. Just have a better aim, Rog, yeah?”

“Better aim?!” Brian shoots back, before pausing, as you look at him, amused. “I- yeah- okay. Fair enough. Just because we fight doesn’t mean we should involve outside parties.”

“I should think so! Squabbles are for band members only - sorry to disappoint you, dear.”

“Oh, I’m _weeping_ at the thought of it.” You drily answer Freddie, while rubbing your face. You notice John, while looking concerned, looks uncertain when he’s not bouncing with his bass. _Ah, crap,_ you realise, _they need to keep rehearsing, not worrying about my face._ Waving them off, you say “don’t worry! My nose isn’t broken or bleeding, keep on going! I’ll sit down, to be out of line.”

Freddie follows your eyesight, which was still at John, and like a protective hen, glides slightly closer to him, catching on. “Alright! But Roger, no more tossing of drumsticks today, thank you.” Said drumstick tosser (haha, _tosser_ ) grumbles, before looking back at you. “If Brian hadn’t of moved-”

_"Roger.”_

He stares at Freddie, and they appear to have a silent conversation, before he blinks back to you, less riled up than before. “...Sorry, it wasn’t intended for you. It was for the Electric Giant who _rightly deserved it!_ ” He laughs, though there’s a bit of an edge to it.

“Maybe we should have a break.” John inputs, as Brian whirls back to insult Roger.

It takes you by surprise, but maybe he’s right. Freddie seems to agree, albeit slightly reluctantly. “...Yes, we should. But if you two are going to brawl it out, have some common sense and  _don’t_ fight by the expensive instruments.”

* * *

**_july 2nd, 1971._ **

You’re filled with an inhuman amount of pride, and exhilaration, as Freddie thanks the intrigued crowd of their first gig with the four of them; you’re giddy, excited, you’re alive! Maybe it’s just you overhyping them, and having an obvious bias, but you loved it - there was still room for improvement, but overall, you were enraptured by their energy and music; you found keeping your hands steady enough for any photos that had a chance of being in focus was nothing short of a miracle, if you were being honest.

“Alright, love, calm down.” you hear someone next to you laugh, but you can’t stop smiling, and push through to get closer to them. You notice a group of girls hanging nearby the stage, ogling Roger, who _pretends_ he doesn’t notice, and you _know_ he’s just being a prat because he’s smirking while packing his drum kit away. You manage to squeeze past the last few strands of people floating around, and call out “I loved it!”. You make Brian jump, whose unfairly long legs you were the closest to, and he puts on a polite smile before realising it’s you, and it becomes a tad more genuine.

“You sure sound like you did. Meet us outside, yeah?”

You nod, and as you turn to get yourself a drink because it’s July, and you were in a room full of lots of other sweaty college kids, one of the oglers from before slide over to you, a little too close for a stranger you’ve never met before, and you can taste her perfume in your mouth.

“You know Brian?”  
  
“I do know Brian, yes.” You _also_ know where this is going (and you can also _still_ taste her perfume).  
  
“Great! I thought so! So does that mean you know Roger?” She smiles sickly sweet. The rush of adrenaline and giddy feeling makes you think. You could have some fun. You could stop this, make Roger’s extensive list of partners for this week just _that_ bit shorter. Just for some payback for the drumstick.

...Something tells you Roger’s stopped paying attention to packing away.

You smile.

“I know _lots_ of Rogers, actually, you might have to be a bit specific.”  
  
Her saccharine smile drops for one of annoyance. “The drummer?”  
  
“Drummer?” you repeat back, dumfounded. “I - hey, Brian, do you know of a drummer called Roger?”

Brian, who’d just come back to collect more of their equipment, stares at you. Then the girl. Then Roger, who swiftly pretends he’s not listening because _that’s not cool_. It clicks. (Thank you, Brian! Your astrophysicist brain is the best!)

“Ah, no, sorry, I don’t.”

The girl looks at Brian in disbelief, then looks discreetly at Roger, because _she’s too cool to approach him right now_ , and thinks he’s not paying attention to a single word. She looks between you and Brian, only to huff out in annoyance with a dignified _‘fuck you’_ , and storms back to the group of Roger Vultures. They promptly leave, but not without deciding to mark you as their worst enemy with death glares. You follow in Roger’s footsteps of being _too cool_ , and pretend you don’t see them.

You walk back to your original destination of the bar, and as Roger shouts out your name in frustration, you shout back, still feeling a buzz from the gig, “For the drumstick!”

John laughs.

* * *

 

_**circa. july, 1971.** _

Roger never got you back for that night.

You realise this in the stillness of a break from practicing, when you’re sat with Roger on Brian’s dying sofa while Brian and John have gone to get drinks, Freddie’s on the phone to Mary in a phone booth, and you have a moment to think, instead of trying to take in their energy into photos. You shift your eyes over to him, while he’s trying to tap out a rhythm you’re guessing is for a new song - but Roger is always on the lookout for whoever is giving him their attention, and his eyes flick to you, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

You purse your lips, debating on whether to mention it; he’s not below revenge (and neither are you, so it doesn’t count as much of an insult, does it?). “...Nothing.”

He shifts, sitting upright., arm now resting against the back of the decrepit couch, cracking a grin. “‘Nothing’ _my arse_! what is it? Can’t resist my charms?” That makes you bark out a laugh; his arrogance will either be the death of him, or what brings him success.

To emphasise, you pointedly shuffle back, your bum hitting the arm rest, and roll your eyes.

“You wish, but I’m alright. Not looking to get an STD, Rog.”

“Oi! I’m clean!”  
  
“How do you know? You know about people’s teeth, not their testicles.”  
  
“ _Actually_ , I think I’m quite experienced w-”  
  
“Right! Don’t want to know!” You stand up, acting exasperated, as Roger laughs, a grin that looks more like it belongs on a schoolboy than a grown adult far across his face. You huff, and there’s a moment of silence after he calms down from his giggling, and you think you’ve gotten away with it! Maybe letting Roger talk about sex really _does_ get you out of-

“Alright, alright, you still can’t get out of this. Why were you looking at me like I was smuggling drugs?”

Bollocks.

“Are you?” an attempt to swerve the conversation! And-

“Think somebody would have managed to find me out by now. Stop trying to change the topic!” -Roger swerves the topic back on track. Damn it. No escaping it now, and you can’t make up a good enough lie to sound convincing (and you can’t act to save your life, either).

“Just wondering why you never got me back.”  
  
“...For what?” He questions, because there’s probably starting to be a list of what he could probably get back at you for - although you could say the same for him.  
  
“When me (...and Brian) cockblocked you from that girl that wanted to talk to you after your first gig with Deaky?”  
  
It takes him a moment, probably going through the girls he'd seen around that point. It kind of relieves you that he obviously hadn't found it that important, and wasn't latching onto that. “Ohh, right - yes, I was pretty annoyed, but I did smack you in the face with a drumstick, so it was fair game.” He uncharacteristically reasons, while habitually placing his hand in his shirt as he talks to you.  
  
You eye him suspiciously. “Fair game?”  
  
“Yes! It’s not like I was _lacking_ that night anyway.” He’s _so_ smug. God.

“My efforts were fruitless then!” you lament, before thinking about it, and giggling. “...Well, I guess I spared you from her perfume, so I did you a favour.”  
  
“Her perfume?”  
  
As the taste of it comes back to you like some horrid memory, you choke for dramatic effect, before falling back next to him, arms up for that extra feeling. “ _Oh my god_ , Roger, she probably doused herself in it, it was so strong! And she was so close to me, like we’d been friends forever - when she only wanted to talk to me to get the _Roger Taylor Experience_.” you sound a little too irritated at that last bit, and scrunch your face at your own bitterness.

It’s not _that_ bad, and you’re not jealous - but it’s not the first time someone’s tried to use you to talk to the band, or Roger, specifically, and it probably won’t be the last. You’re sure if you _were_ still around as they continued to grow (there are better photographers out there, you happen to be what they can afford right now), the amount of people seeing you as a stepping stone would only increase - and while you like to be nice, sometimes you feel like letting people fall straight on their arses. But you can’t always assume that of people, you’d be on guard too much.

That’d probably make you a little lonely.

“‘S that annoying?” Roger interrupts your tunnel vision of the future, genuine concern replacing the amused arrogance that was there before. It brings you back, out of surprise, and it takes you a second to respond.

“I mean-it’s not awful or anything, but if all people want to talk to you for is to get in someone else’s pants, it doesn’t make you feel on top of the world.” Oh wow, you sound...how would your mum put it? _...Whiny._ Eugh.

You try to recover the sombre mood, pitifully, with a strained laugh. “But it’s just what you’ve got to expect hanging out with _rockstars_ , huh?”

Roger frowns. “It’s still not right, though. If anyone tries to ask you again, tell them to piss off.”  
  
“And talk to you?”  
  
“They should’ve talked to me in the first place. They lost their chance.”

You raise your eyebrows - you haven’t known Roger for a very long time, not compared to Freddie and Brian, so you haven’t really seen the just side of Roger, as he’s either busy blowing a fuse or grinning like he’s gotten away with something, or...you know.

It’s a nice surprise, though, and you smile, breaking the weird, unusual atmosphere for the both of you.

“ _Awww_ , Roger, you’d pass up a shag for me? I always knew there was a selfless soul in there!”

He snorts, and stands up, seemingly grateful for the break in tension. “Okay, moment over. I’m going to snag a cigarette off of Fred.”

…

“Hey, Roger?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you, really.”

He waves you off, stepping out of the room.

“No problem, really.”


	2. hoping that you'll see the glass full. - 1972.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's 1972 (with some 1971), and while you like to think you can, you can't always keep it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER HAS TOPICS ABOUT UNHEALTHY FAMILY RELATIONSHIPS, AND EMOTIONAL BLACKMAIL. if that's not your cup of tea, i hope to see you for the next chapter, where it won't be described as vividly.

**_circa. january, 1972._ **

You’re fairly certain you’re the world’s best friend, when you’re walking through London at two in the morning, old shopping bag in hand, stuffed with drinks and food. You’re used to staying up late, but as there are less and less stumblers and howling groups of drunk people, and everything that brought life to the night was slowing down themselves, you feel exhaustion beginning to creep around your eyes.

De Lane Lea Studios, your destination, is both the love and bane of your existence. You love it, because it was, for you, the culmination of a brand new start for them - of course, they wanted better (they always do), and were getting antsy to move onto bigger things, as they’d been there since last year. However, you saw it as a place where you just knew people would be talking about how Queen were once recording here, the same place as The Beatles! ...Perhaps it _is_ blind optimism, but while you’re mostly ignoring the doubts of everyone else, you know the four of them do take it into consideration. They need the support, sometimes, and you like to think of yourself as a morale boost.

Freddie once crowned you as their ‘superglue, keeping our raging ship together’, after a particularly difficult day, where they’d been struggling to cooperate with each other.

* * *

 

**_circa. november, 1971._ **  

You groaned, as Brian and Roger had found something else to argue about, this time for “The Mad Swine”, and decided enough was enough, (and the poor audio engineer working in the control room with you looked ready to succumb to ripping his ears off) and abruptly stood. You stormed into the live room, hair a mess from lying in one of the chairs, as an attempt to block their argument (it was one about Freddie being ‘too nitpicky’, to which he responded with ‘that’s quite funny, coming from the man who probably has nits in his great, big, bushy hair’, and then it derailed from there), and the usual playful glint from your eyes was gone, replaced with dead irritation.

Whatever retort that was about to come out of Roger’s mouth completely evaporated into the open air, as they all turned to stare at you.

“I swear to God, or whatever the hell is up there, if you do not stop arguing and get on with making the good music I know you all can, _together,_ then I will personally make sure you can never open your mouth again.”

“...Good music?” Roger perks up, and the other three look at him like he’s waved the red flag at the raging bull.

“Good mus- yes, good music! Why is that what you focus on?!”

“Good?”

“Of course Queen is good! Queen’s music is more than good; it’ll smash the top before you know it - if you work together!” You re-emphasise, feeling like you’re speaking another language, as they look at you oddly. Taking a look at them, your thoughts start to rationalise, and calm down (took its time, didn’t it?).

They’re frustrated, and uncertain, you realise. At least, they are today. You shake your head in disbelief, and find yourself laughing.

“You guys don’t see it? Really? Why? Because you can’t agree _today_?”

They all glance at each other, before both Roger and Freddie speak up, agitation still clear in their voices.

“It feels pretty useless right now!”

“We’ve been at it for hours, endlessly, and nothing is working-”

“This is just a stumble in the grand scheme of things!” You interject, gesturing wildly, as you continue. “With all the time you’re spending together, you’re bound to fall out, and - no offence, guys - you all have some...extremely strong personalities. You’re going to bash heads! But you’ll bash heads, and then work it out, and work off of each other. Your music is brilliant, it’s got so much potential, **if** you could get your heads out of your arses and fix whatever’s going on! Queen isn’t Queen without all of you, now. So maybe take a breather, but then get back on it, because you. Bloody. Well. Can!” you poke Freddie in the chest, as he’s the closest to you, with every word of that last sentence, trying to make your point. At this point, you’re breathing a little heavy from the passion rolling around your words, and you feel like you need a drink.

“That’s easy for you to say, you don’t have to do a single fucking thing!” Roger snaps at you, his anger from arguing with Brian still not completely exhumed.

You stare at him, not quite used to Roger shouting at you, but you don’t stay quiet for long, your irritation and passion mixing in your lungs and brain. “You’re right, I don’t have to do anything! But I still do, dickhead, I still take photos for your promotions, I still make sure you idiots eat when you’re arguing and rehearsing, and even though you’re now having a go at me, _I’m still fucking rooting for you!_ ”

“No one asked you to! We’re not your children!”

“I’m doing this because I care! Isn’t that enough?!”

“B-” Roger starts.

“You know what?” Roger ends whatever he was about to start as you sharply interrupt, sounding more like you’re about to start sniffling. “No! Sort this shit out. I’m not being a punching bag right now. I’m taking a breather, if none of you will.”  

* * *

  ** _circa. january, 1972._**

That breather outside was necessary, you remember, even if the London air was anything but refreshing. You eventually calmed down, and when you walked back in, the sound engineer was actually able to do his job (ears still intact), as The Mad Swine was playing, with no interruption (and _eventually_ an apology from Roger). Afterwards, Freddie had wrapped an arm around your shoulders, and exclaimed:

“You, dear, are the superglue that holds our raging ship of a band together!.”

You’d felt pretty proud of yourself that day.

The slight digging sensation of the plastic bag in your hand brings you out of your memory, and you remember why you also found it the bane of your existence. You don’t live particularly close to the studio, and yet you’d get a call asking if you could bring something over (though, even if they didn’t ask you, you’d still check in on them, if you could). The tube wasn’t awful, and you had to take it normally, anyways, but taking the tube in the early hours of the morning? Besides the people who were twisted that were also taking the tube, it was just...creepy. No matter how many times you’d taken it by now.

Plus, your photographs are never great when you’re half asleep, and your rationalisation for your visit of taking photos for your portfolio basically flies out the window before you even consider it. You don’t even bother trying to reach out the theoretical window for it anymore, because it’s obviously not going to happen, is it?

No, it’s not, you decide, releasing yet another yawn, as you finally reach the building. You mumble a ‘me, again’ to nothing in particular as you find your way to the control room, only to be greeted with the sight of a man walking out, looking pretty pleased with himself. He nods a greeting to you, and you give a polite, but confused smile back - but you have no time to ask him anything, as he’s already out. Probably in a rush to get home.

...But why was he here at two in morning, anyway?

You replace the man where he’d been at the doorway, and peer in, only to see the boys looking extremely ecstatic. You feel your shoulders drop from the tense feeling you hadn’t realised was there, and grin at them, tiredly holding up your shopping bag.

“I bring food and drink for whatever celebration you’re about to have.”

You’re greeted with cheers of a new manager and ‘Trident Studios’, and as you sit down next to John (who you’re still slightly awkward with, so you leave him enough space for himself), you’re happy you kept them together for this, as superglue.

**_march 31st, 1972._ **

You feel burned out.

Arriving back to your dingy flat, clicking the door open, you see the orange light of the setting sun dragging itself across your sofa, and all your energy dissipates while you gaze at it, blankly.

You are _definitely_ not in the pink right now.

It’s a couple more seconds of staring at the light until you manage to rise out of the haze you’re finding yourself stuck in, and you ungraciously collapse on your sofa, letting out a quiet ‘humpf’ as your back hits it. The quiet of your flat unnerves you, and while you don’t want to be overwhelmed with sound, you don’t think you could handle the silence and your thoughts, culminating together.

The anxious silence at your mum’s house was enough for you, thanks.

_You remember her muted, but blatant, judgement as you drank your cup of tea with her, and the clock ticked, setting you on edge with every tock. Back straight, you were focused on making sure you were doing everything right, and almost didn’t catch her clinical tone._

_“Have you found a better job, yet?”_

_It was always that question. She seemed to have this personal vendetta against photography, as if it’d cursed her very existence. It was never enough for her, no matter what you did with it; it wasn’t stable enough as a job, it wasn’t very professional, it didn’t hold a lot of opportunities, how could you ever make enough money (for her to leech off of you)?_

_You just couldn’t, she decided, and when your mum decided anything, that was that._

_You gave her a tight, practised smile. “No, but I’ve managed to get more clients interested in what I’m doing-”_

_“What? More sad attempts at ‘rockstars’? Really, sweetheart, you know they never go anywhere. Speaking of rockstar attempts, you know that one band you had too many pictures of?”_

_You knew what was coming, you knew what she was going to bring up, and you didn’t have to answer her - you could’ve left there at any point. You -_

_“-Sweetheart?” She speaks almost warmly, although it’s dripping with condescension, and she peers down at you from the cup she brings to her mouth, that has the perfectly applied lipstick she chose for the day. You feel so small. You have to answer._

_“Are you talking about Queen?” you feel ill mentioning them here, like it tarnishes them, like you shouldn’t bring what makes you happy into this house._

_“Yes, ‘Queen’. A...flamboyant title for a group of men.” She gauges your reaction. You give her nothing, and that takes everything. “Have you stopped taking pictures of them? And if they are ‘moving up’ as you say, haven’t they hired a professional?”_

_Your free hand, that’s resting in your lap, and not on the table, holding your cup, grips your dress (you always have to dress properly, for her, or she’ll spend even more time picking you apart). It trembles slightly, but this is routine - you take a subtle breath; control yourself, it’s okay, you can let it out, later._

_“They said they enjoyed my photography, and wanted me to keep working with them.”_

_“Did they? ‘Enjoyed your photography?’ Well...I suppose if that’s how you keep a job like that, then at least you’re making...sacrifices. It’s not worth it, though, don’t they have flossies hanging around them most of the time, anyway? I’m just looking out for you; what will you do when I have to have someone look after me, and you can’t afford it because you never had a proper job? You do want to be there for me, to make up for lost time, don’t you?”_

_You felt numb. You felt completely shut down, you couldn’t even find the energy to get angry at her suggestive, accusatory comment on why you were still with them. She held guilt over you, and it weighed too heavy for you to fight back._

Tears well up in your eyes, your throat closes up, and the orange light leaking through your flat has almost entirely slipped away. The emotions you’d been hauling back all day come unravelling, coming at you all at once, and you choke out a sob in retaliation. You’re too tired for this.

You’re used to this too. It’s not unusual after seeing your mum, you having to let everything out in one overwhelming, extreme release that lasts for at least a day or two, as you try to slowly pick yourself up, feeling lost most of the time.

You generally try to avoid seeing people after mother’s day, just because you’re so...afraid of letting other people see you at your absolute worst. There’s a part of you scared they’ll belittle your feelings the same way, so you keep everyone far away enough that they don’t know what’s going on.

You ‘coincidentally’ have fallen ill around this time for the past few years, and you realise you’ll have to call Freddie sooner or later, to let him know you won’t be coming over, or your phone - if it had a throat - would be hoarse from all the ringing it’d have to do (and your bank account would be weeping at the sight of your phone bill).

Moving from your uncomfortable position, you stretch your back, and languidly walk across to the phone. You glance over at the clock; it’s five, and you know they’re either recording or rehearsing for their next recording session at Trident. Having the number memorised, you hazily dial it in, before waiting for someone to pick up.

“Trident Studios, this is Amanda, how can I help you?”

“Uh, hi, is Freddie Mercury there? I need to talk to him, it’s... his photographer.”

“Could I have a name please?”

After giving her your name, she asked you to hold, and you’re left mindlessly twirling the phone cord in your empty hand, using it as a sort of grasp. The salty taste in your throat starts becoming slightly unbearable, as the time goes on where you’re left listening to nothing.

A call of your name brings you out of the haze you hadn’t realised you were in, but it’s not Freddie.

"Roger?” you sound...drunk? High? You try to clear your throat, and grip on the cord a little tighter, to ground yourself.

“Welcome back to planet Earth! Fred’s busy recording right now, so I’m here to pass the message along.”

“Oh, uh...I’m just letting you guys know I won’t be around for a couple of days I’m not...feeling well.” You cringe at how unconvincing you sound, and hope that Roger doesn’t notice.

“Really? What’s the matter with you?” He sounds...suspicious. You nervously bite your lip, and cough in an _attempt_ to sound ill.

“I think I caught a virus, ‘s all. -Listen, Roger, I’m exhausted.” See, you’re not a _complete_ liar. “I just called to let you know, so Freddie doesn’t think I’m dead and calls me to death. See you and the boys soon.”

You don’t give him time to respond, though you hear the beginnings of a sentence, and hang up the phone. Eugh, you feel even worse, now, lying to the people you trust, and the sense of loathing you usually ignore seems to envelop you after all that. You should probably try to sleep this off.

* * *

 

**_march 31st, 1972 (trident studios)._**

Roger has this feeling you’re lying, and it pisses him off, a little. Why are you lying? Why are you so quick to brush this off? He huffs, and hangs up the phone, himself, sick of the beeping that taunts him and grates on his nerves.

Walking back into their live room, he notices Freddie’s finished recording his vocals, and is busy explaining an idea for a song about an instrumental for their upcoming album to Brian and John, until Brian spots him.

“Who was it on the phone?”

Freddie turns, and curiously looks at Roger. “Whoever it was certainly didn’t make you the happiest of people.”

“It was (Y/N), saying she had a message for you. She said she’s gotten ill and won’t be coming in for a few days, but it sure didn’t sound like she was ill.”

“Again? She always gets ill around this time of year, it seems to be an annual thing with her immune system.” Freddie comments.

“She _said_ it was a virus, although something tells me that’s a load of bollocks.” Roger retorts, shortly. “Yeah, she _sounded_ tired, and not like she usually does, but not in a sick way. She completely shut me out, and hung up without letting me say anything else.” He grumbles, and the agitation in his body makes him want to play the drums, just to let some of it out. (He’s always managed to channel the temper he held through that, as getting into fights never worked out very well, for him.)

Freddie purses his lips, and when he talks again, it’s thoughtful, but with concern. “She always did sound exhausted on the phone when she told me,which is why I let her go. ...Do you think we should stop by?”

“I mean, there’s most likely a reason why she’s not being very specific. It’s probably private, you know?” John adds, sounding like he’s speaking from experience (and far too old for someone who’s the youngest out of all of them, _God_ ). Roger lets out another huff. “She doesn’t normally lie to us, though, that’s the thing! Why is she lying now?”

“I don’t know, Rog, but it sounds as though she wants to be left alone, for now. I think it’s best to respect that, yeah?” Brian pats him on the shoulder after he stands, and goes to leave.

He bites back a retaliation, and instead asks in confusion, “Where are you going?”

“To my parents, Roger - it is mother’s day, we said we'd finish early, today.”

John and Freddie have started to get ready to leave, too, he notices. Right, he’d promised he’d call his mum today. Hopefully, his dad doesn’t answer the phone, he’s _really_ not looking to have something set off his short fuse that was already threatening to set off. He decides to follow Brian’s advice - for once - if only because he’s a bit miffed at you for not saying what was wrong, and you probably don’t want someone shouting at you, right now, whether you’re actually ill or not. Freddie assures him he’ll call you, and ‘see whatever’s got her in a funk.’, 

As Roger leaves the studios, he realises he’s never heard you talk about your parents.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a bit more serious than the last chapter, and this took me...a lot longer than the first. i hope you don't mind the seriousness, and the very slow movement of roger and reader's relationship; this is tagged a slow burn!!! he'll be there for u soon, i promise


	3. there's always something that's worth believing in. - 1973.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's the year queen's first album is released, and it's the year you start catching onto something that you don't really know what it is (but it plans to linger).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _god_ this took me donks, im so sorry for the wait!!!! i don't know why this chapter took me so long, but it just....kind of did? but i hope you enjoy! i'm also sorry if there are mistakes, but i just really wanted to get this out for you as soon as possible (also so i could finally be done with this chapter ahdsfdgsj). there's also a lot of paper and turning and looking in this one....

**_circa. may, 1973._ **

“Top Fax Pis and Info _is_ a good album name!”

“You’ve got to be joking, Roger.”

“Oh, like _‘Mad Band $ Dangerous To Know’_ is a far better name!”

“It is!”

You and John groan, simultaneously, from your seats at the table. Papers scrunch and slide under your elbows, as you bury your head in your hands, shaking your head. You’d think you were listening to two fifteen year olds arguing, not two men, one at _twenty three_ years of age, and one at _twenty five_. Honestly.

In Freddie and Mary’s flat, you’re sat with John, while Brian and Roger have stood up, sans Freddie who’s out organising another gig (and Mary, who’s at work), with album concepts strewn about the (slightly shoddy; you’re all pretty low on cash) table. Brian’s seat is next to you, facing Roger, while you’re opposite John. The two of you can’t really ignore their arguing and have a conversation when they’re _right next to you_. In solidarity, you reach out and pat John on arm - now having a less awkward friendship than before - and mouth ‘we’ll get through this’. His eyes crinkle at the edges, as he gives a slight smile, and mouths back ‘when we’re dead’.

You snort, and look up at Brian and Roger, who are now pointing at a piece of paper...or two pieces, as it’s become a victim in their argument. “My title is strong! It’s heavy! And what is our music on this album? Pretty heavy!” Brian argues, still gesturing to the ripped piece of paper.

“We look like we’re trying too hard to be cool! Nobody is going to take us seriously with a debut album called that, you moron!” Roger’s voice gets higher, and scrunches up one of the remains of the poor paper’s body, and throws it at Brian. It bounces off of his nose.

“Oh that’s  _very_ mature, isn’t it?”

“Sorry, I was just acting like how that _stupid_ title makes us seem!”

You glance back over at John, and nudge his foot under the table to get his attention. ‘Going in.’ you say, and John holds up his arms and replies with ‘it’s your funeral.’

“No offence, Brian, but it isn’t the best title.” you interject, willingly putting yourself into the fray, as to put an end to the whole debacle. When you’re met with the betrayed look of Brian, and the uplifted one of Roger, you pointedly look at the drummer. “I’m not saying ‘Top Fax Pis and Info’ is the greatest title ever, though. They’re both...well...shit.”

John quietly laughs into his cup of coffee (with one sugar, you remember), leaning back, and you want to laugh, too, but that’s just fanning the flames at this point. You still have the cheek to give Roger a smile when he seems even more offended.

“Right, what’s your idea then?” He exclaims, though there’s an element of humour in it, that wasn’t there when he was yelling at Brian; you think you’d managed to take some of the edge off by insulting both of them.

With a shrug, you say “I don’t know, but any of Freddie’s made up words on _Death Scrabble_ would probably make a better title than what you’ve got.” Brian mumbles a ‘yes, because _‘en’_ would be far better’, while finally sitting down, slouched in defeat. Success! ...On one side. Roger’s yet to fully back down.

The assailant in question rolls his eyes, and scoffs. “At least ours aren’t a name like ‘Humpy Bong’.” Brian manages to let out a laugh himself, and John chokes on his one sugar coffee in surprise. It takes him a minute to recover; you’d reacted the same way when Freddie had told you.

" _Humpy Bong?_ ” John leans back into the table, deciding that the battle is mostly over, and it’s safe to join in. You bite back a laugh yourself - the band had intentions, but…

“Tim Staffel, our old bassist and lead singer in Smile, left us to join a band called ‘Humpy Bong’-” Brian started, to which Roger joins in with “-that lasted about a _year_ before breaking up.” You nod, sadly, giving a mock salute in remembrance for Humpy Bong, to which Roger grins at, and joins you. You think you’ve managed to end the Great Album Name War of ‘73! You expect a procession soon.

“In memory of Humpy Bong.” you lift your own cup, a remorseful expression on your face.

“For Humpy Bong!” Roger and John echo back to you, holding up their own drinks. It’s a beautiful moment, and three of you relish in its beauty, before cracking up.

“Alright, alright. Let’s use ‘Humpy Bong’ to help us decide on a better name.” Brian pushes everyone back on track, ever the responsible one. Roger decides that he can sit down again, and there’s calm across the table, while they’re all focused.

The door clicks open, and you look to find Freddie stood in the doorway, a little gobsmacked at the whole situation. “Have I stepped into another world? What on earth have you all done with my band?”

John’s the only one who really looks up, and raises a hand to greet Freddie, before going back to his own list of ideas. You grin at Freddie, and stage whisper “We’re trying to think of an album name, but you should’ve seen them before.”

“Album name? I’ve already decided on it! You don’t need to be losing hairs over it.”

That catches Brian and Roger’s attention (and now John’s, fully), and their faces say ‘are you kidding me’ - they’re identical, and your grin only grows wider.  

“What have you got, then?” Brian asks, irritation crystal clear - to which Freddie takes no heed of.

“Queen!”

“ _Queen?_ As in the name of our bloody band?!” Roger squawks, the floor squeaking in protest as he stands from his chair, again.

...Maybe you should cancel that procession you wanted.

* * *

 

**_july 13th, 1973._ **

In the aftermath of Queen’s performance to celebrate the release of their first album, you realise how much the local attention they’ve gotten has increased. Last year, not as many people hung around afterwards, specifically for them anyway, and you could get through the trails of people left over to talk to them. Now, however, there’s more people that want to talk to them, and while you’re immensely proud of them, you can’t help the annoyance that comes from trying to get past people, while your camera hangs around your neck, too! (It’s expensive! You don’t want people bashing their elbows into your baby.)

The air feels as heavy, and you’re just as buzzed, as all the times you come see them perform, though. Some things never change. You manage to slip past everyone without damaging your camera, and find your way to the ‘backstage’ room the Queen Mary College provided.

It’s cooler, _thank god_ , and the air conditioning embraces you like you’re a long lost friend (it felt like one, to be honest). Your appreciation for the cool air doesn’t last for very long, as you hear Brian tutting over Freddie, who’s sat down, looking at his leg, where a trouser leg is pulled up.

“I cannot believe you hit your leg so hard with the tambourine you _bruised_ it, Fred.” Brian sounds like a mother telling her child off, and you walk over to where they’re sat, and Freddie’s the one who sits up slightly, arms spread. “Darling, how did you find the show?” as if he hasn’t got a massive purple welt growing on his leg. Ah, Freddie, ever the one for the people, and not himself. As he speaks, his voice croaks a little, and you’re already guessing Freddie’s going to start communicating in excessive hand motions for the next few days, in place for his lost voice.

“It was brilliant, as they always are! But god, Freddie, I know they say ‘break a leg’ but I don’t think they meant it literally.” You joke, though concern seeps through your words, and he rolls his eyes in retaliation. “Nonsense, you have to give it your all, or what’s the point?”  You sigh in response, and place your camera down, before turning to Brian.

“Do you want me to get ice, or…?”

“Oh, yeah, that’d be great, thanks.” Brian sounds slightly surprised, like he’d forgotten first aid, still recovering from the adrenaline. You bite down a smile, and gesture to your camera, “Look after my camera - if it gets damaged, it’s on your head, May!” you say cheerily, and turn to leave, as Freddie’s croaky laugh follows.

“If you see Roger, tell that bastard to stop snogging and come back here and help us pack everything up!” he calls - and you turn back to give Freddie a thumbs up, before making your way back into the main venue, to find the makeshift bar, where most of the remaining crowd had migrated to. You squeeze past people with apologies and excuses of an emergency.

At the bar, you lean in, and wave to one of the three bartenders working, and wave a little less relaxed than possible, hoping to be noticed. One of them - an overwhelmed college kid - notices you, and walks over to you (the poor kid is the physical embodiment of tired).

“Hi! Sorry, I just need a pack of ice for a bruise? It’s for the singer from Queen.” you try to explain, sounding sorry to load more work onto his shoulders. He stares at you for a second, as if you’ve grown another head, and then blinks, mumbling out a “yeah, sorry - give me a second”, before turning away to find...something to make an ice pack with.

While he’s improvising on the spot, you decide to look out for long (very sweaty) blonde hair amongst the people at the bar. You find a girl who’d probably been dancing very passionately, and a guy whose friend was making drumming motions, while he shook his head (hey, maybe all long haired blonde guys are destined for the drums! Don’t bash your potential fate!). No luck.

The college kid shows up in your peripheral vision again, and respectfully, you give him your full attention. He holds out a dish rag, tied up. You want to grimace, but realise he’s tried his best, so you give him a forced smile, and take the rag, ignoring how damp it is against your hands. You thank him, but he’s already moved on to someone waiting. Ah, to work in anything related to culinary service. (You’re very glad you weren’t a waitress, and you’d hope your feet would thank you, if they could.)

Slightly dripping rag in hand, you start to speed walk back to the backstage room, trying to save as much ice as you possibly could. In your slight race against the physics of melting, you pass a blonde haired guy, and continue.

...You stop, and quickly walk back to said blonde haired guy.

It is Roger! ...And he’s got a girl giggling under his his arm, batting his blue eyes at her, looking far too innocent considering what you’re pretty sure he wants to do. She’s got her arm around his lower back, and looking very focused on his lips, like she has a test for it the next morning. You kind of want her to fail.

Walking up to Roger, the girl under his arm sees you first, and stops laughing.

“Wh-” she begins, and you cheerfully interrupt with “-Roger! I’ve come as a messenger.”

Roger stares at you suspiciously for a couple seconds, wondering what you’re doing; are you trying to get back at him for something again? “Oh yeah? What?”

The dripping of water on your shoe reminds you that you shouldn’t really be hanging around for too long, and this strange bitter feeling in you also eggs you on to move the girl from under her shoulder, but you don’t pay too much attention to that.

“Freddie says to come back, and help them pack up, since he has bruised his leg... _quite_ badly. But Brian’s making more of a fuss about it than he is - you know, show must go on and all that; I think Brian needs help, or he’ll start going bald.” You explain, adding the last part as a joke, but _also_ meaning to sound urgent.

Roger glances at the girl under his arms, whose clicked it that she might be losing her chance of sleeping with a drummer (who’s in a band! You’re swooning at the thought of it). She lightly tugs at Roger, and finally looks him in the eyes.

“Do you have to leave, Rog?” she whines, and scarily sounds like Roger when he’s whined in the past. His gaze switches from her to you, and while you’d love to stick around longer, the ice in your hand is not waiting for anyone - not even Roger’s inner turmoil with Brian’s potential hair loss and his crotch.

“Sorry, as much as I wish I could, I don’t control the elements,” you hold up the improvised ice pack, “so I’m gonna go. If you don’t show up, I hope you both enjoy yourselves!” With that, you leave the embarrassed girl and Roger to their own devices, and head back.

When you return, and Brian asks where Freddie is while you place the soggy ice rag on his leg, (Freddie squints at it, unimpressed) you surprise yourself with the snide tone in your voice as you say “He’s ‘busy’.” Brian takes it as general frustration at Roger being...Roger, and not helping out, and nods in understanding. Because that’s why you were frustrated. Right?

* * *

 

**_circa. july, 1973._ **

The haze of the summer evening washes over London, as the sun drapes itself across the tops of buildings, melting into the shadows. You’re stood outside, on the worn down, but loved, balcony of Freddie and Mary’s flat - everyone seems to gather here, even though it’s definitely...not the largest place, and hosting it to six people is always interesting. (Like the time there wasn’t enough seats, but instead of sitting on the floor, John plopped himself on Freddie’s lap, to which Roger followed, and barely anyone had blinked at it.)

You’re not out here alone, though - cigarette smoke wafts in front of your eyes, languid and lazy, as a reminder of your companion. Or...maybe you’re the companion, as you joined Roger after he hadn’t come back in once ten minutes had passed after storming out.

Recently, he’d been less... _Roger_ , the one who’s filled with comments, cracks at everyone, and big grins. He still did joke, but would be far quicker to irritation when playing, delved deeper into sleeping with girls he’d never call again (while that may not have sounded out of character, Brian said it was more frequent than usual), and put a slight distance between him and the band. Freddie had noticed, of course, and confided in you to voice his concerns.

“It’s so fucking stupid - I tried to ask him what was wrong, and he said something incredibly vague that was a sorry excuse. He obviously doesn’t want to tell us, but I’m _worried_ about him, dear.” It sounded...awfully close as to how you dealt with your issues, but you don’t mention that. However, you did promise Freddie you’d at least try to ask Roger, because it didn’t sound healthy (again, you definitely know it’s not healthy, don’t you?), and you were concerned, too.  

That was last week, and your chance to bring it up hadn’t presented itself until today. After he scrunched up something he’d been reading, and quickly left the cramped indoors of the flat, Freddie caught your eyes, and his widened eyes flitted from you to the balcony door, excessively. You put up a hand, telling him to wait. “Give him a few minutes to himself, he might explode otherwise.” The frontman opened his mouth to say something back, retaliation at the tip of his tongue, until John adds to the conversation.

“She’s right - do you remember when you tried to talk to me immediately after I’d, well, gone off at someone?” John cocks his head at Freddie, and he closes his mouth.

You’re not sure if you want to see or know what John is like when he’s angry.

Ten minutes passed, however, and Freddie urged you to go and talk to him. You relented, probably looking as concerned as he did, and now here you were, quietly stood next to Roger, as he smoked. He knew it was you, and had been waiting for you to pull a joke out, acting as if he was just being regular Roger, having _yet another_ temper tantrum!

He waited. You didn’t.

It’s only after he’s finished his cigarette, the smoke dissipating as he butts it out on the railing, and the embers die out, that you softly ask: “What’s up, Rog?” In response, he flicks the cigarette off into the street below.

You notice he still has the slightly scrunched up newspaper in his hand, as he brings up his other (now cigarette free) hand to lean against it, elbow digging into the railing. He scrunches his mouth, and lets out a puff of air, still staring out into the relaxed, steady sunset. “It’s ridiculous.” He shakes his head, already trying to dismiss the problem. You frown, Roger never just dismisses things that make him storm out, he’s too obnoxiously vibrant in personality to do that.

You don’t want to keep dancing around it, so you cut straight to the point. “The newspaper? Or something else?” Your gaze doesn’t leave him, even if he’s not going to look at you. He lets out a bitter, short laugh, and looks at the papers crushed and folded together in his hand. “‘S me and the newspaper. And other stupid, stupid things.”

He’s not outright saying it, although he’s not completely shutting you out. You take that as an incentive to see what the problem is, rather than having him say it outloud. “Can I see the paper? Or...what’s left of it.” He kind of smiles, to which you find victory in that, but he hesitates, before handing it over to you, the smile gone - he’s still not looking at you. “Page twelve.” is all he says, and lets his head drop, eyes closed.

You step back, no longer leaning against the railing, attempting to de-scrunch the newspaper, smoothing out the edges that have page numbers. You find page twelve, and there’s an article about...Queen, and their debut album gig from two weeks ago. You grimace. It’s obviously not a _glowing_ review. Preparing yourself for the worst, you read (albeit it’s more like skimming, you notice Roger in your peripheral vision turning his head to look at you, antsy).

 _‘Remarkably arrogant and pretentious songs for a band with no name’_ , _‘....outrageous and absurd’_ , _‘...no hopes for having any interest from anyone except someone at the back looking to be “different” and only being obnoxious…’_ , _‘...packed with enough guitar riffs to last a century…_ ’, _‘...flamboyant image that tells you what you need to know-’_

Okay, enough. Personally, you think this ‘music journalist’ really ought to be kicked off whatever high horse they think they’re on, and you mumble “what a wanker.” under your breath, and fold the newspaper. You’re greeted with Roger turned, staring at you, still antsy. He reminds of you of a kid, afraid of the reaction they’re going to get from a parent.

“Right, whoever wrote this is a top class _dick_ , Roger, you know that.” You try to assure him, although that’s not the only reason he’s like this, and the seemingly permanent discouraged expression on his face reminds you. “You’re usually calling the people who are harsh wankers, not me. So…” you shift back to your original spot at the balcony, next to him, as if to create some form of privacy, and your voice goes quieter. “...What is it?”

Roger, while still staring at you, seems to have an inner debate with himself, taking a deep breath. After a few beats of silence (save for the far off wails of a police siren), the staring breaks when he suddenly digs into his jacket pocket, bringing out a Marlboro pack, and eventually lighting another cigarette. He inhales deeply, taking the longest drag you’d ever seen anyone take (ah, coping mechanisms - they’re wonderful, aren’t they?). Thankfully, Roger exhales the smoke, cigarette resting between his fingers, away from your general direction, and you both just watch the smoke while Roger gathers his thoughts.

“We haven’t done great.” He says, bitterly, back to looking out instead of at you. “Alright, so I don’t know what I was expecting but...with reviews like that, and barely any attention, it’s pretty shit.”

“Roger-”

“No. I know you’re always telling us how great we are, and what we’ll be, but you can’t deny we haven’t had a brilliant start.” He immediately cuts you off, and you for just this once, you curse the great ambition they’d built themselves up with.

“No-” you copy him, “-you guys are great. It’s been _two weeks_ , and you guys are just starting out with albums; there’ll be more. There’s always more with you four.” Roger’s still unconvinced, you can tell, because he’s also still not looking at you, and he brings his cigarette back to his lips.

You’re quiet, and once a couple seconds pass without an expected argument from you, Roger turns to see what you’re doing. You notice him, and the newspaper in your hand is now outstretched to him.

“Rip it up.”

When your faced with Roger blinking at you, and the newspaper in front of him, you waft it at him. “ _What?_ ” is all he says. Wow, this is the man who gets several girls to sleep with him? What a smoothtalker.

You groan, and grab his free hand to place it like its a clip, on the edge of the newspaper. “You do know how to rip things, right? Do it! It’s therapeutic.” You lightly jostle his hand you’ve grabbed, and after the third jostle he gives in with a ‘god, alright, you mad woman!’. He places the cigarette in his mouth, and rips the newspaper into two. He cracks a smile, and you break out into a grin, seeing your success. “See! It’s good!”

He lets out a laugh, and at the sound of it, you feel an invisible weight leave your chest, leaving you giddy. Roger places on top of the other, and rips the paper once more. There’s a smug grin on his face as you egg him on with: “Show that journalist what you really think!”.

This continues for awhile, and before you know it, Freddie and Mary’s balcony is littered with remnants from a massacre of what you would only call ‘therapy’, and the grin hasn’t left your face. Roger seems more like himself, too, and you feel pretty proud of yourself, even if he’s still not entirely happy.

You’re both sat down, backs against the door to the balcony, (you wonder what everyone else inside is doing...you wouldn’t be surprised if Freddie was preemptively planning your funeral), and you’re flicking some of the small pieces of paper left, when Roger nudges you with his arm, catching your attention with your name.

“Thank you, I owe you one.”

You nudge him back. “No problem, ...and you know you guys are going to _skyrocket_ , right? Like I’ve always said. You’ll make that journalist eat their own words. If you don’t I’ll...I don’t know, eat paper.”

He snorts, and rests his head back against the door, as your attention goes back to the paper. “So you’ll _have_ to be there when we do skyrocket, then.”

You pause. That leaves you  feeling...warm? He wants you to stick around, to be there with them. _Someone actually said it._ Saying that even when (yes, when!) they become big, Roger’s saying he’ll still want to have you there. It’s a bit...silly, but somehow coming from him, it feels special? And when you glance over at him again, seeing the final loose threads of the evening sunlight melting onto his eyes, causing him to wince not so attractively and grumble about having left his sunglasses inside, you think Roger Taylor really _is_ pretty - you wished you had your camera on you right now.

“Yeah.” you mumble, a more shy smile on your face, “I guess I will have to still be around, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wonder if i'm foreshadowing?  
> fun fact! the album names are real names that roger and brian wanted to use, at first.


End file.
